


I'm not here looking for absolution

by chemicaldefect



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-14
Updated: 2012-03-14
Packaged: 2017-11-01 23:00:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/362222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chemicaldefect/pseuds/chemicaldefect
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The only time Dean’s continued existence after Hell makes sense is when he’s with Cas. Castiel offers Dean absolution in the only way he is allowed. Set during Season 4.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm not here looking for absolution

**Author's Note:**

> My first SPN fic and my second fic ever, so feedback is very much appreciated. Thanks for reading! Also, because I apparently am obsessed with them too, title comes from "Bedroom Hymns" by Florence + the Machine

Sometimes Dean thinks Cas put him back together wrong after Hell, that he can feel the sharp, jagged puzzle pieces of his soul rattle and chafe against one another, knit back together in a pattern that no longer fits, rubbing him raw and bleeding from the inside out. His dreams are a swirling, tormenting mass of conflicting imagery: his own skin flayed apart from his ribcage as his agony claws its way past mangled vocal chords; bloodied, tattered carcasses screaming, begging for _mercy, release, death, more more more_ under the unforgiving steel of his own knife, stretched before him on a rack made of bones while a skeletal hand squeezes his shoulder in a parody of reassurance, urging him on; a warm, comforting presence of _love redemption peace forgiveness_ wrenching him away from the torture chamber, battling through the scorching fires and rebirthing him in soothing rays of pure white light.

 

That last dream ( _memory?_ ) is, in many ways, the worst – a moment of bewildering relief in an ocean of well-earned suffering and self-loathing, disturbing to Dean’s unforgiving conscience that can’t quite forget the symphony of pained screams and sadistic laughter and his role in its orchestration. Dean feels _wrong_ , inhuman, a demon forged out of holy fire, a paradox that has no business existing among humanity, no business existing at all. The feeling has permeated every aspect of his being and no amount of _drinking hunting fighting fucking_ can eradicate it. There is an idea of who Dean Winchester is, a remnant of years of hunting monsters and laughing and crying and taking care of Sammy, but he is wholly unfamiliar to this creature that has emerged from the flames.

 

Castiel knows the truth: the old Dean Winchester is dead, and the entity he brought back to Earth is an entirely new being, an adult child without a mother or father to guide him and help him make sense of his place in a fallen, broken world. He watches Dean struggle with the memories of who he is _supposed to be_ , trying and failing to fulfill Sam and Bobby’s expectations, and his grace dims in despair; he cannot find the words in any human tongue to explain to Dean how precious he is in all of creation, a man formed not in the image of God or Adam or Eve, but a warrior all the way down to his bones, fashioned in the likeness of seraphim and cherubim, a human/angel fighting a heavenly battle on mortal soil.

 

The heart that he’s not supposed to have breaks when he sees Dean clinging to a past that devalues him in his entirety. Dean lurks in the shadows cast by his own guilt, thinking himself a charred, ugly, irredeemable thing, blind to the bright blue _good holy pure_ fire Castiel sees burning in his soul. Castiel may question the will of his Father and the Archangels, but he knows, to the white-hot core of his being, that no matter how the armies align themselves in the end he will trust Dean above all others. He knows that Dean will be the savior of all mankind.

 

There are no words to convince Dean of this, no way he will ever accept with any conviction Castiel’s offers of absolution. So Castiel speaks to him in a language that Dean _will_ understand. He tells him in the long, wet slide of his tongue up Dean’s vertebrae, from tailbone to scapula as he laps up the sweat pooling in the small of Dean’s back; he tells him in the twist of agile, lube-slick fingers scissoring Dean’s entrance while he presses gentle kisses into the back of Dean’s neck; he tells him in his slow glide into Dean’s open, ready body, in the broken, wordless gasps he breathes into Dean’s ear as he tries to gain some control over the surging power of his grace, overwhelmed by the heat and intimacy of the act. He hopes Dean feels it in the bruising pressure of his fingertips on Dean’s hipbones as he thrusts into him, in the way his movements falter when Dean moans his name – _Cas! –_ and pushes back. When Castiel slides a hand up to grip the imprint on Dean’s bicep, he prays to a Father he’s not sure he believes in that the message translates in Dean’s mind: that he is loved, he is never alone, that Castiel will follow him to the ends of the earth and back over and over and over again, will fall with him over the side and into the abyss if that’s where Dean leads him, because Dean is _brave stalwart trustworthy good_.

 

This is the only time Dean feels like he makes sense. It’s so much more than fucking – Cas is inside of him, surrounding him, consuming him and reforming him as something new, better every time. He reaches back blindly and grasps onto Cas’s thigh, bracing himself on one forearm as he thrusts more fully back onto the angel’s thick cock, moaning Cas’s name loudly when the change in angle hits something deep inside of him, a spark of molten pleasure that rockets out along his nerve endings. Dean loses himself in the rhythm, the heavy breathing and the wet sounds of their bodies rocking desperately against one another, the obscene slapping of flesh against flesh.

 

He can’t believe that Cas would give this to him, that he _wants_ to give this to him, that he was the one who had first wrapped a commanding, forceful hand ‘round the back of Dean’s neck and pulled him into a bruising, biting kiss. He falls forward under the weight of the knowledge that _he_ , Dean Winchester, broken, damaged human that he is, has such power over an angel of the Lord; he rests his head on his forearm and blinks the tears and sweat out of his eyes as he accepts the increasing force of Cas’s thrusts, relishing the pain-pleasure of the burn that he knows he’ll feel for days.

 

He chokes out a curse – _fuck, oh fuck, Cas_ – when Cas closes a hand around the raised, red scar on his arm, releases Cas’s thigh and reaches underneath himself to grip his leaking cock, stroking in time with the staccato rhythm of Cas has set up against his prostate. He feels so close – close to coming, close to Cas, close to becoming something more than the mess of tangled, fucked-up memories that haunt his waking moments. Cas just grips his arm even tighter, buries his face in the curve of Dean’s neck and snaps his hips one, two, three more times into Dean’s body before gasping out Dean’s name reverently in his deep, gravelly baritone. It’s enough to send Dean falling over the edge with him, and as he spills over his own hand he feels, for a moment, like he’s whole again, one complete being instead of several warring personalities trapped inside an empty skull.

 

It won’t last; both of them know that in a few minutes, when the lassitude of orgasm fades, Dean’s shame will return and he will retreat behind his wall of bitter machismo and defiant posturing to hide the disgust he feels for himself, and Castiel will confront his stinging insults with steadily diminishing patience. But right now Dean lies with his head on Castiel’s shoulder and allows the angel to offer some small amount of physical comfort, to whisper soothingly in a language that Dean doesn’t know or understand as Dean pretends that it’s sweat and not tears streaming silently down his face and onto Cas’s chest.

 

After each time, Castiel holds onto the hope that some of his words sink in despite the barriers between them, that Dean emerges from each encounter slightly less fractured than he was before. He hopes that Dean is beginning to understand the weight of his importance on the path ahead of them. Most of all, perhaps selfishly, he hopes Dean understand his importance to _Cas_ , the absolutely vital role he plays at the center of Castiel’s existence. He watches and he waits, and when he feels Dean slipping back into the chasm behind him Castiel reels him back in with lips and teeth and tongue and hands, pulling him more fully into himself, surrounding him with his love, his grace.

 

And after each time, whenever Dean feels like he’s drowning in blood and fire, he distractedly traces the outline of a handprint on his arm and remembers whispers in the dark, and the slide of skin on skin. He remembers and he knows that, whatever creature he has become, Castiel knows its heart and soul more intimately than Dean could ever hope to, has seen into the darkest recesses of its mind and has not pulled away. He may not belong in this world, may not be able to settle fully back into a well-worn driver’s seat next to a brother who no longer recognizes him, but somehow he belongs with _Cas_ , and in those moments, that knowledge is just enough to survive.


End file.
